


Victorious Defeat

by wickedrum



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bonding, Emetophilia, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mirkwood, Sickfic, Thranduil whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:32:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4515057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedrum/pseuds/wickedrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feeling deeply connected to all that constitutes Mirkwood, including his subjects, Thranduil doesn’t take the losses from the battle well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shredder

Disclaimers: Unfortunately I don't have a Lee Pace. Not the original, and not any of his characters. Written for enjoyment only.  
Genre: Angst/Romance.   
Set: Closely after TBOTFA

 

Thranduil felt strangely reluctant leaving the devastated Tauriel. With her mourning over the body of her love, raptured into a state where the king knew well from his own experience she would not be able raise above the sword of wretchedness lodged into her heart and the desolation taking hold over her chest for the time being, a certain understanding had passed between them. Tauriel had put her life in his hand fully aware that he was acquainted with what she was going through, but he refused passing a sentence arguably suitable for her disobedience and treason. He could not kill her, not now, not ever, he was sure of that. Not because she wished death and granting it would’ve served her purpose, not because of Legolas and not because elves rarely willingly caused the passing of another. Tauriel has threatened his, the elvenking’s life, and he was well in his rights to sentence her to death for it. He could let his commanders and advisors deal with the situation at a later time. He had to get back to his lieutenants and his people as soon as was possible, let them know he was alive and well, organise the care of the wounded and the regrouping of their forces for the march home. He was helpless to provide Tauriel with any relief for the moment in any case, nor was it his place, so he made a mental note of sending some members of his guard for her at a later time. 

His steps were unsteady as he turned and he found himself grabbing for the wall of the ruins of the gloomily looming fortress up the top of the rocky mound of Ravenhill. He hadn’t even realised how weary he had gotten after a full day of a fierce and largely fruitless, senseless and unexpected battle. He had brought the bulk of his archers and spearman for show and demonstration of power, not for an unplanned clash with orcs and goblins from Gundabad, reminding him of creatures akin to those that killed his wife and of the horrors of the War of the Last Alliance at the same time. 

The crumbling stairways and tunnels that led him downwards didn’t help his state of mind, memories of long forgotten ghosts haunting him at every turn all the while he had to manoeuvre through and step over numerous corpses of the enemy, along with those of a few dwarves and further down under the mist, he began to run into bodies of fallen elves more and more often. Legolas wasn’t one of them, he knew that now, but the heartache of losing him in another way was starting take a toll on his spirit too. At least his son would not have to see this though, go through the torture of having to bury so many of their compatriots and that was good, but it also meant Thranduil will have to deal with all its weight alone. 

The trek was becoming ever more troublesome. More bodies to climb over at the same time as his sprains and bruises and weariness was starting make him aware of their existence. He was not looking at the faces of those fallen anymore, not since he had found Legolas, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t recognise some of them. Many of these elves he had personally trained, or at least had overseen their acquiring of skills necessary for the elven army and the great majority had been part of his followers for the very least centuries, millennia at times. Relatively young or old, he didn’t know which hurt more to lose. A wine trader who had insisted on changing professions just recently, one of the archery masters in charge of tutoring the newer recruits, a flag bearer, a horse handler fascinated by cartography-all the departed had their life stories and faces attached to them he could easily recall even as he tried very hard not to. It could take a long time to collect all these bodies and then the burden of having to tell the fallen’s loved ones of their unfortunate fate will befall on him. How could he do that, look into the wives and children’s eyes and justify the deaths, ultimately his fault for bringing them out here for collecting some gems that although rightly belonging to him, held no validation to cause the death of one elf, never mind hundreds. 

Resolve steeling him in the decision, he took to purposefully avoid looking anywhere near his subjects who fell for him, but his feet could not avoid the blood and spilled guts and severed limbs. Even that glove, he knew who it belonged to and it startled him into making the mistake of looking again, finding the respective body mutilated, headless and otherwise unrecognizable. But he knew there was a little girl, barely a few years old, waiting for her father to come back. 

It was that knowledge and not the sight that made him gag and suddenly his armour was all too tight for his sadness inflated chest. On impulse, he got rid of the chest plate to be collected by whoever at a later time and fell to his knees by the corpse, laden by all the burden and responsibility for his people. He’d never planned this massacre, they would’ve all stayed in the safety of the caves if he knew the full extent of the dangers awaiting for them at the bottom of Erebor. All that weight on his shoulders made him hunch over, breaths painful in his emotion filled chest. “What have I done!” He called out to nobody in particular and somehow expected the sky to close in on him as punishment. 

Instead, a shaking hand grabbed hold of and clawed on his leg. “Help me, please. Help me.” A voice pleaded. Thranduil turned to find an elf lying helpless, with his eyes gauged out, otherwise also incapacitated by mangled legs, in a state the king wondered how the bowman could still be alive. As far he could tell, the victim wasn’t one he could recognise, but it didn’t take much away from the horror of the realisation that there was nothing that could be done for the elf. 

“My Lord! My Lord, are you injured?” Feren appeared coming up on the stairway, followed by half a dozen other members of the royal guard. With the way his king was hunched over, pale like a ghost, there was no other conclusion he could come to. 

“Please, end this pain, kill me,” the wounded bowman begged, moving his head a little round towards the sound, now that he was sure there was someone capable around. It was the second time in less than an hour somebody pleaded with Thranduil to take their life and this time, he saw no other option. His hand moved towards the other elf’s and squeezed his arm, “have no care, warrior,” he heartened, “they are waiting for you in Valar.” His other hand went for his sword to unsheathe it.

“I will arrange it,” Feren offered, “we need to get you to the healers, Your Majesty,” he stooped on the other side of the dying elf.

“The…the king?” The common soldier turned his head back towards the first source of sounds incredulously.

Thranduil held up his sword holding hand to halt Feren. “I am your King. You fought well, warrior, I am proud of you,” he encouraged the wounded, “and I thank you for your service. What is your name?”

“Aewendar, my Lord.” The elf answered softly, calming down. “An honour to die by your hand,” he uttered reverently. 

Thranduil closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. There was no honour in that, just another life snuffed out because of his foolishness. And this time, it wasn’t just the figurative blood on his hands. “Do you have a family Aewendar?”

“A wife, and daughter, Your Majesty.”

“Aewendar, I promise you they will be well provided for as long as I live,” Thranduil held and embedded his sword into the middle of the unfortunate elf’s chest. The warrior expired with a simple inhale and exhale, probably already having had lost too much blood to feel anything. Thranduil leaned onto the hilt of his sword, weighed by guilt and shaken by memory. It wasn’t the first time he had to do such a thing.

“My Lord, are you alright?” Feren prompted, worried. The king looked shaky and unwell, his usual composed superiority conveyed in every movement and deed of his to the slightest of changes in position all but completely shattered. 

“I am unharmed,” Thranduil tried to get himself together and onto his feet. Feren looked unsure of whether he should step forward and aid him, but the elvenking ultimately mastered enough of his self composure to convince his subordinates that he was capable enough to stand, dislodge his sword, sheathe it and stumble round and onto the path down the hill. “Report,” he commanded, forehead creasing in uneasiness, but otherwise poised and focused.

Feren allowed himself a half of a relieved sigh before complying. He was still quite convinced the king was injured, but it didn’t seem grave. “All wargs and goblins are either dead or fleeing. I gave the order for pursuit to eliminate as many as possible while they are still weak, with your permission, My Lord,” he asked for it in retrospective. With the king gone on his own private mission, he had to make his own decisions in his position in battle as chief lieutenant of the forces after all.

“Very well,” Thranduil grunted. He wasn’t keen on more danger and more of his elves engaging in combat when it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but what Feren done was common practice and well expected. 

“Thorin and his nephews are dead,” Feren continued, “the dwarves suffered the greatest of casualties. King Bard wishes to join forces in the aid of the wounded on the battlefield, not making differentiation between the injured, but collecting and treating them depending on severity of injury and not race.”

Thranduil halted, momentarily looking just as questioning of the idea as his right hand in battle. But then he gave a minute nod, “aid him as much as possible, as long as he’s not asking for the same treatment for dwarves.” Then he winced. Tauriel would not be happy. His stomach churned just thinking of her having been left up on top of the horror hill, a formation littered with death and symbolic of the meaningless destruction that creature could commit against creature. It was such a conflicting situation, so logical to stay loyal only to your own and yet the elleth would ask her the opposite, through it all. 

“My Lord?” Feren prompted, uncertain. The king was holding on to the crumbling wall and had not said a word in a while. 

Thranduil blinked up, as if roused from slumber, a little confused. He had to remind himself of what was expected of him, “I am well,” he assured. But his mind and body didn’t think so. One step forward and the dizziness in his head that came with his aching heart descended to his stomach. He halted again, leaned forward, and threw up, barely avoiding his lieutenant’s boots. 

Tbc


	2. Crocheted

Chapter 2: Crocheted 

Feren was not happy with the situation, not at all. What he wanted to do is get Thranduil down to the tents and into a healer’s care. His majesty was looking far from well as he meandered through the quietening battle field, now filled with the occasional calls for help from the wounded and the weakening cries of the dying. 

Thranduil trailed behind and off the path often, checking everyone they’ve met up and down, whether they were fit for further duty, or lying on the ground bleeding out. He seemed lost, disoriented, unfocussed, very unlike Feren had ever seen him before, but every attempt of the royal guard to herd his king to have a rest ended up being ignored, and finally outright refused with a temper that at last reminded the lieutenant of Thranduil’s usual demeanour. 

Thankfully, it also shook the king out of his apparent confusion. He straightened, eyes looking around calculatingly, rather than at a loss. He gave instructions, loud and clear and perceptive as to where healing tents should be erected and what messages should be sent back to Mirkwood. He thanked his field marshals, offered his appreciative nods to random bowmen they met along the way, with a heartening hand on the occasional elf’s shoulder that was being carried away on a stretcher. That was unusual too, but then again, Feren had never had the chance to see for himself how the elvenking behaved after a weighty battle. All in all, it was enough to assure the guard that the king was back in control and thus reasonably fit, at least as much as to conceal weakness, enough for him not to worry too much leaving his charge unaided when Thranduil sent him away to fetch a horse and bring Tauriel down. As the leader of the royal guard, his primary concern was always the king, but he also had to follow all his orders. 

Unfortunately, the simple sounding command took a lot longer than he would’ve expected. The brunet was stopped several times by random troops for direction and orders in the midst of the chaos that still reigned the aftermath of the battle, then when reaching the bottom of Ravenhill he found that the previously relatively intact stairway they have used earlier had lastly crumbled and so it was only through climbing steeply using hands and feet both that the summit was reachable. And not just that, but the only trail available was used by the mourning dwarves in the process of bringing the body of their king and his nephews’ bodies down. 

Furthermore, Tauriel wasn’t where Thranduil said she would be. However, Feren ultimately managed to locate her standing on top of a crumbling turret, unresponsive to his shouts and instilling the dread in him that she wanted to jump. He didn’t particularly care for her, but it would’ve been an elf’s life, and for a senseless reason too. He climbed as quickly as he could, then placed a hand on the elleth’s arm from behind, holding it with a firm hand while he told her his orders. To his surprise, the redhead complied easily enough, though with a definite indifference to what happened to her or what her sentence for treason would be. She followed docilely, instinct guiding her effectively on their way down despite the darkening horizons. 

Back at camp, Feren was somewhat relieved to find that they were directed towards Thranduil’s royal tent to meet him. Sitting on his ornate chair, changed out his armour and into his silky robes, Thranduil looked comfortable and serene enough, bar for the creases on his forehead and pursed lips that indicated that these were far from peaceful times. He rose fluidly at their arrival, intent, mantle swiping the steps behind him as he descended in their direction and set his wine glass down. That he was dying inside nobody needed to know. “Any mentionable difficulties?” He questioned Feren, clearly referring to his long absence.

“No, Sire,” the brunet bowed, internally judging Tauriel for not doing the same.

The king was scrutinising her too, with a thoroughness that was bordering frightening. He couldn’t come to a conclusion about her state of mind just looking at her however, so he stepped close, clamping down the urge to touch her, assure himself of her being in one piece in front of extra eyes. “How do you imagine your fate should go Tauriel if I was to bestow what was fairly due for your offenses?”

“I don’t deserve mercy,” the archer acknowledged, any sense for self-preservation gone, “I don’t expect mercy.”

Thanduil raised his eyebrows, incredulous. Of course he shouldn’t have expected her to behave and feel otherwise after such a short time, but it still stung to see her like this, being reminded of what the feeling of loss of this magnitude looked like. His heart was going out for her. Just seeing that hurt in her eyes made his own heart squeeze with pain. He closed his eyes, sighing, “we have lost many of our friends and companions and comrades today, Tauriel. You will be held responsible for defying orders, endangering the crown prince and holding your king at the point of an arrow, but your deeds are momentarily irrelevant till we deal with signing a treaty, the withdrawal of the troops and taking care the wounded. I expect you to take full share of your responsibilities with the above.” He commanded, ostensibly detached. “Do you understand?” He added however, not sure she was paying attention. Tauriel looked even more upset than when she was brought in.

“I…” Tauriel blinked up at him, some logical thought filtering through the fog of emotion. She didn’t have many goals left in life, but getting Kili’s funeral was one of them. “My Lord…I apologise, but thought I would be banished?”

“Do you not have any compassion for your kin!” Thranduil spat, suddenly livid. “If banishment is what you’re after, you can have it, after all remaining elves are hale and safe!”

“I do. I do, My Lord.” The redhead assured hastily. She wasn’t afraid of the elvenking’s wrath, she never have been, but she didn’t want him to think her heartless. “It was only that I hoped to attend the Durin funerals,” Tauriel explained boldly. She would stop at nothing to achieve that, it’s not as if she had much to lose. 

Thranduil inhaled and kept his breath in as he studied her. He had forgotten about the fact that there would be such a thing, not as if dwarves would be anywhere near the top on his list of priorities to think about, of course he had not thought about that! At the same time, he could understand her, it was the last time she would be able to feel to some degree close to her love and he didn’t have it in him to deny her such a thing. He knew it didn’t look good, that it made him appear weak and lenient, but what did it matter anyway in the light of such a horrific day? “King Bard appealed for elven attendance for the sake of reconciliation. You will be present with the Sindarin delegation.” He ruled, looking resigned and tired.

This time, Tauriel did bow, as low as she could manage without falling on her face, “I thank you, My Lord,” she exhaled comforted, meaning it for a change.

“My Lord,” Nelion, Feren’s second in command appeared in the opening of the tent, echoing the same words at the same time, looking hesitant, “the healers provided me with a reasonably accurate estimation of the numbers you requested, Sire,” he advanced slowly.

Thranduil turned, just as hesitant. It wasn’t a number he was keen to hear, but he had to know. “Well?” He encouraged.

“Alfirindaer assures me that the vast majority of the battlegrounds have been inspected and thus the sums are very close to the true values.” Nelion guaranteed.

“Go on,” Thranduil breathed, dread pooling in his stomach. Walking back from Ravenhill and becoming cognisant of the extent of the devastation felt like part of his soul was getting ripped out, departing to the undying lands with his people and now he would find out just how much of that really was the truth. 

“Four hundred and twenty-six counted dead, My Lord and another five dozen gravely injured, not likely to survive the night,” the messenger held bravely, his voice cracking only barely noticeably.

Thranduil felt sick, all of the wine induced redness going out his cheeks. He raised a hand to his forehead, suddenly dizzy, trying to steady himself, convince himself that he already knew that the numbers will be high, there was no reason for the abrupt shock. He had already felt it, his connection being lost to part of his kingdom forever in proportion with the losses. But hearing it out loud like that was apparently another matter. He did make out Feren calling out for him, questioning his wellbeing, and Thranduil did make an attempt at concealing his misery by trying to reach his chair to sit on and regroup his thoughts and strengths, but moving had seemingly proved to be a wrong decision. His head was swimming and he felt the nausea rising again. Looking for purchase, it was Tauriel he had found, her eyes reflecting a matching devastation storming in her soul. He tried to hold onto the eye contact as if that could’ve held him up and grunted, not wanting to give into weakness, but by then the elleth had to have her arms firmly round him while he desperately buried his fingers painfully into her shoulders, trying to keep on his feet.

“Get him down to the ground,” Feren ordered despite his king’s unvoiced wishes and Thranduil found he did not have the focus to object further. All those elves, dead because he had brought them here. Blood on his hands, tainting his soul to an extent he could never wash it off. He shook his head weakly, while cognisant it would do no good, not to the situation and not against his subjects lying him down. All he could still do was moan in protest as Tauriel and Feren lowered him gently. His eyes closed against his wishes as well as he lost his remaining control on his own body.

“Nelion. Fetch Alfirindaer, or any other healer if they’re closer.” The brunet guard commanded, then hollered, “Galion! Is Galion here?”

The servant jumped inside from outside the tent, startled. “What happened?” He eyed his master lying pale and limp on the ground. 

“Did you help His Highness change out his armour?” Feren disregarded the question.

“No, sir, he had only asked for clean garbs to be fetched, grey and dark colours if I could find,” Galion reported.

“Then you don’t know if he has any injuries?” The chief guard questioned.

“I have brought him a bowl of water to wash in and there was blood in it when I took it away, but I assumed that came from those he’d slayed,” Galion winced, defending himself, “he had said nothing.”

“Did you not notice anything amiss?” Feren pressed further. 

“He said it was not a time to eat when I offered him dinner. I do not know anything else, sir, apart from him seeming rather tired. Not unexpected after the battle is it?”

“Did you make his cot?” Feren glanced towards the parapet, not being able to see behind it.

“Yes, sir.” 

“Let’s take him over. Help me lift him,” Feren asked both Tauriel and Galion. Together they managed to move the king comfortably enough, Tauriel supporting the shoulders and head gently, warily and the other two taking a side each, making an effective living chairlike hoist. 

Thranduil moaned at being lifted, arms flailing without aim, giving the impression of not being completely unconscious, but not being able to control what happened to him either. Lips trembling, his breath remained laborious even when they settled him in the cot comfortably, the fact alarming his present subjects. “We need to check for injuries,” Feren established, always a believer in action. He stepped back however, it wasn’t his place to undress the king.

Galion nodded, understanding the urgency. He started undoing the tunic when Alfirindaer burst in, trailed by Nelion. “I was told the king has passed out?” The chief healer started, surveying the scene.

“A few moments ago. He hasn’t regained consciousness,” Feren reported, “I already noticed a change in him during the battle, I was quite sure he wasn’t at his strongest when he took off to find the prince. The difference was a lot more noticeable when I finally caught up with him and I was fearful he was unwell, but he would refuse help,” the personal guard held, his words flowing quicker from his lips than usual as he could not hide his concern. 

“Has he been hurt? Do you know of any symptoms?” Alfirindaer motioned for Galion to continue with the removing the king’s clothing.

“I haven’t seen him getting hurt, but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t been. He acted muddled at times,” the brunet guard admitted, “tired and unlike himself. He heaved as well.”

“Alright,” the healer was surprised by the latter revelation, but he took in the facts and the sight of Galion hesitating at the belt. It was one thing to expose the king’s chest, but his privates would be another. “Everybody to go out.” Alfirindaer ordered, “I will need one other healer to assist me,” he eyed the departing group, his gaze stopping on the elleth. “Tauriel. I believe you’ve been taught the art.”

She nodded hesitantly. The redhead had used her knowledge just recently and was better at it than most elves would’ve thought, but she didn’t feel emotionally strong enough to focus and provide real support. However, Alfirindaer insisted on waving her over while Feren gave definite instructions to the other two to keep their mouth shut and not let anyone know of the king’s condition. His hesitation to leave was obvious, the sight of his king helpless and frail playing heavily with his own capacity for composure. 

The chief healer was oblivious to her heartache, and seemingly did not know of her precarious position in court either. “Start with his legs, get the boots off and begin with the palpation. If you find any bumps, blood, sensitive areas, let me know,” he instructed while he began doing the same with Thranduil’s skull.

Tbc


	3. Lull

Chapter 3: Lull

There wasn’t much Tauriel could assist with, she was sure of that. Alfirindaer had determined that there were no injuries requiring attention. The only physical concern they could find was some abdominal tenderness, implied by weak moans and tightening of muscles when touched there, but the chief healer deemed it inconsequential and not enough to cause the king’s current state. “His exhaustion isn’t carnal,” he concluded after comprehensive consideration and time taken to feel for Thranduil’s life force, “nonetheless, he needs extensive rest and that should be sufficient to aid him to recover on his own. I will go advise Feren,” he stood, “my services will be profoundly needed with the troops tonight, I am sure the king would agree with that. But please call for me if he’s in distress.” He ordered Tauriel before departing. 

“Huh.” It escaped Tauriel despite circumstances. Did they just leave Thranduil in her care half a day after she had threatened his life. All things considered, the situation weirded her out somewhat. Undoubtedly, the great heaviness in her chest prevailed and yet there was a sliver of concern growing in there for her king. Thranduil had defied and negated every conception she had of him for centuries in just a short few hours. Perhaps he hadn’t cared for dwarves, but he did care, deeply and with a disastrous intensity for his elves, and there was evidence of some deep seated memory of pain, and he seemed to have cared for her in particular too, as evident from his words and deeds. It ignited a regard in her for him, magnified by the state of helplessness he lay in, his hands lying limply beside him, so unlike the arrogant air he usually held himself with. Despite the healer’s reassuring and trivializing words, Tauriel knew instinctually that there was something seriously wrong with Thranduil, but she was just as helpless in healing him as she had been with Kili. 

She sat at his feet instead, half submerged in her pain and half watching Thranduil breathe featherlight and weak, occasionally punctuated by a slight, disturbed movement of the head or a breath that sounded more like a moan, happening more and more often till he woke with a start and a thick swallow, using an arm to support himself into a sitting position.

“Easy, My Lord, take your time,” Tauriel advised, jumping. She didn’t dare to touch him now that he was aware, but she moved closer, ready to assist him if necessary. 

Thranduil straightened, willing his bearing under control. “How long.” He demanded, not looking very happy with himself.

“Not much longer than half an hourglass,” the redhead appeased. “Alfirindaer holds that you should rest,” she advised mildly.

The king regarded her stiffly, then tilted his head, eyes turning curious. Something had changed in her and the change was good. Pleased that at least that little portion of the turmoil was going into the right direction, Thranduil eased himself back down. Sitting up and taking part in ongoing life seemed such a chore. If he could only bury himself as well with the dead, if only for a little while. 

“Do you wish for anything, My Lord?” Tauriel offered hastily. The fact that Thranduil lay back down without argument alarmed her deeply. “Should I call for Alfirindaer?”

The older elf shook his head, “let him tend to his duties.”

“Do you need a healer though, My Lord?” Tauriel pressed. “I should let you know that Alfirindaer left me here in that capacity,” she disclosed hesitantly, doubting her own ability to perform adequately, “please tell me if I can help.” She offered nonetheless.

Thranduil raised his eyebrows at that. He didn’t think himself that the elleth would be up for the job in her present predicament, but rather her than any able healer being forced away from providing relief for the wounded. He didn’t wish for anything anyway, just to be left alone. “There’s no need for a healer.” He established quietly, looking up at the top of the tent fixedly, way more mellow in his demeanour than Tauriel had ever seen him. The captain of the guard couldn’t shake the feeling resurfacing in her that there was something very wrong. “Alfirindaer expressed concerns about your stomach,” she tried to go as tactical and illusive as she could. That wasn’t what the healer had said exactly, but he had mentioned it. 

The king seemed surprised about that too. How did they know his belly was hurting? He placed a hand on the mentioned organ as he would’ve had to check, as if he would’ve forgotten who he was and how to act enigmatic and keep his secrets. “The state of my stomach should not concern you,” he held elusively. 

They both knew it was a lie, plain as day from the way his fingertips curled in and dug into his belly and he was too far gone in his disheartened shape to care enough about appearances with her. “Leave me to rest,” he ordered, wanting nothing more than solitude so he could immerse in the ache of the failure to protect his people, calling for him unbridled. “You can leave Tauriel, help someone else,” he repeated at her hesitation in a way that left no room for argument. It still sounded wrong, missing his usual elegance.

The redhead bowed, apprehension heavy on her mind as she followed his orders. Perhaps she wasn’t the best person to look after him, but somebody should. To her relief, Galion was right outside, awaiting orders close by as usual. “The king is awake. He wants to be left alone, but check on him every so often,” she stopped in front of the servant, making sure he nodded and appeared implicated enough to be given charge before she stumbled a few more feet forward. Chaos reigned outside despite the hour, with campsites being built and wounded being carried, in every direction towards the assemblages they belonged to. Tauriel came to a halt, confused. Where was her place in all of this?

Tbc


	4. Service

Chapter 4: Service

Tauriel approached the stone slab Kili’s body had been placed on feeling oddly detached and in a haze. Perhaps it was a primeval survival mechanism that blocked further emotion travelling from her heart to her brain. There was no more heartache she could take. It was Bofur who pushed her forward, having stayed close to her at all times during the funeral dirge and the procession up to the tombs deep in the belly of Erebor and thus enforced the belief in Dain’s dwarves that the elleth was indeed on their side just like how all of Thorin’s remaining company held.

A kiss to the forehead was how Tauriel parted with Kili this time, though her hands found it just as hard to let go as the day before. She forced herself to step back however, give the dwarves the chance to give their prince the esteem he deserved and respect their customs. Everybody else seemed to have been doing the same too, the king and his nephews’ funerals carving the path for the concord and reconciliation between nations the region so sorely needed. King Bard was right in his assumptions to predict so, not even argumentative Dain refused attendance to anybody who wanted to honour his kin. 

The menfolk’s leader was present of course and Tauriel was only a little surprised that he had brought his new friend and ally, Thranduil to stand with him. Not because it wasn’t unexpected that the elvenking would rise above his antagonism towards dwarves for the sake of diplomacy and not because she wouldn’t assume her king should most likely still be resting either, simply because she didn’t give it more than a shred of a half thought. There was too much despondent melancholy in her heart for that and a certain longing and wish to lie down in the tomb with Kili and never get up. The half thought she did have about Thranduil was about his wellbeing nonetheless and she glanced over for a moment to find herself assured that her liege stood motionless and unmoved, his stance conveying his customary impression of power he projected and his superciliousness many non-elves despised. There was no sign of his feebleness from the night before and Tauriel left it at that.

Drowning out Dain’s lengthy and quite inappropriately self centred eulogy, Tauriel kept her eyes on the unusually pretty face and dark curls of her dwarf, promising herself that she will always remember how he looked, no matter if she lived millennia. Burning those features of his into her memory was all that mattered now and she remained in that muffling bubble of hers till commotion around her got to a level that she was jolted out her reverie. Dain seemed infuriated with the interruption as well, seemingly coming from the small elven delegation’s direction, further back in the crammed hall. Bard was calling for help, with the limp body of Thranduil in his arms and Tauriel had to realise that despite perfect pretences and probably a stubborn refusal to acknowledge his own weakness even to himself, Thranduil must’ve fainted again and was still very much unwell. 

Tauriel’s instincts told her to glide in haste to aid her king and she didn’t argue with them. She glanced at the fallen dwarf of her heart once more and decisively and purposefully tore herself away. “We need to get him out of here,” she fretted, kneeling next to her master. 

“How?” Bard worried, “some of the passageways we came through are single file.” 

“Feren. Tell the guard to bring a stretcher as close as possible,” she suggested to her fellow warrior. 

The brunet regarded her with a frown and palpable antagonism. It wasn’t Tauriel’s place to give him orders, but what she had said was the most feasible approach. Erebor in the end still felt like enemy territory and the king happened to show immense weakness exactly where he shouldn’t have. “I will carry him out to you,” Bard promised, making the decision to listen to Tauriel easier for Feren. The dwarves opened a way through in their ranks too, making it possible for the elf to break into a run, a murmur getting passed from creature to creature that the elvenking was injured in the battle and needed help. It wasn’t a time to refute the assumption and perhaps it never will be. Everybody was possibly better off if they thought that and Feren himself still questioned the likelihood, despite Alfirindaer telling him otherwise as else Thranduil’s ailment didn’t quite make sense.

Bard adjusted his hold on his fellow ruler to produce a leather water pouch he had in an inside pocket of his coat and handed it over to the other elf. Tauriel held it hastily to her elder’s up close noticeably dry lips, forehead creasing in worry when Thranduil didn’t swallow and the liquid was flowing down his chin and neck instead. She tried again, with the same results, then decided she should try pouring some gently onto his face instead. Thranduil surfaced with a jolt and a confused look, rapidly followed by the shock and horror of realising he had passed out in front of the dwarven leaders. He took a big breath in preparation, then held onto Tauriel to pull himself upright. 

“Slowly,” Bard warned sympathetically. He helped the other king rise, but didn’t take the support away when Thranduil was standing erect.

“Feren is bringing help,” Tauriel brought her liege up to speed with the developments, also not taking her hands off him. The alarm bells were ringing loudly in her head, alluding to the state she had seen him not much more than a few hours before. If Thranduil wasn’t her king, she would’ve chastised him for leaving his bed.

Thranduil didn’t object to either of their support, trying to get his bearings. If he had made such a big mistake of showing weakness, the least he could do is leave with as much dignity as he could muster and for that, he needed the backing, his legs he could not trust at this point. He nodded at Tauriel, blinking towards the entranceway in indication of his intentions and tuned in with his needs for once, the elleth made the first step in that direction, allowing him to lean on her and proceed the same. Their filing was awkward and slow, curious dwarves surrounding them everywhere, giving looks a lot less hostile than on their way in. Some even respectful or sympathetic, Bard noted. It was a rather unusual way to ensure a temporary cessation of hostility, but it worked. 

Tauriel however, kept her attention strictly on her king. Thranduil was leaning on her more than she would’ve liked, sweat breaking out on him before they even left the tomb and bottlenecked into the tunnels, rather low and tight for elves and men. Bard had to give up on his hold on his Thranduil arm, resulting in him nearly colliding into the younger elf. She arranged her grasp on him in response, planting herself under one of Thranduil’s armpits. It was good enough of a position till they got to the passageway where only one could fit though at a time. “Thranduil.” She prompted softly, not even noticing she had called him by his given name as she steadied him against the wall and looked into his eyes, searching for recognition, that he knew what he had to do. 

Thranduil exhaled at length, pausing and then started pushing through the way they came, with a dizzied head and bent on getting out of there and preferably home to Mirkwood as soon as possible. He halted abruptly, startling Tauriel behind him who readied herself to catch him, but it was only that they reached a bit of the passage that now widened and Feren and his guards were waiting there. 

“I am glad to see you risen, Sire,” Feren received them somewhat relieved.

The king nodded, still supporting himself on the wall and barely noticeably, glanced in the stretcher’s direction. It encouraged Feren to take matters into his own hands and dare suggest Thranduil was carried. “Let’s get you settled, My Lord,” he advanced slowly, mellow and calming in his demeanour and finding he wasn’t mistaken in his judgement when his king allowed his touch and encouragement and let himself be supported over by Feren and Tauriel to the stretcher. Everybody’s hearts sank withal when he also let himself be placed on it, limbs weak and breaths turning pained. 

“We will get you down in no time,” Feren vowed, overwhelming protectiveness making him reassure the king.

“I’d better get back,” Bard turned, indicating his intentions now that he knew that his new friend was in good hands, “make sure all shares are distributed as promised. I will stop by later to see if you are well,” he bid Thranduil good bye. The elvenking didn’t seem to acknowledge the other leader, giving no indication that he had heart Bard. Instead, he curled up on his side round his stomach as much as it was possible on the stretcher, staring aimlessly just where his eyes led to, the fog in them closing in now that he didn’t have to concentrate on where he was going and how. Feeling humiliated and beyond care, he let the world close in on him. None of it mattered at any case, not when his conscience was ripping him apart.

“Lift and let’s make it swift,” Feren instructed his subordinates. He couldn’t help not sharing a concerned look with Tauriel. No matter how antagonistic they felt towards each other, they did share this common worry for Thranduil’s welbeing. Neither of them was looking forward to the trek back to the elvish camp. There were already rumours amongst the troops that the king was injured, there was no way they could refute it now. Worst of all, they themselves who knew the truth, had no explanation for the king’s seemingly worsening ailment. 

Tbc


	5. Association

Chapter 5: Association

Tauriel sat with the king again, feeling just as helpless as before. Alfirindaer had worked on making Thranduil as comfortable as possible, settling him in and coaxing him to drink some water and a couple of potions designed for pain relief and relaxation, though it was hard to target any symptoms as the king still claimed there was nothing wrong with him despite having displayed persistent weakness and signs of being in pain. Relying on the guessing game once more, the chief healer declared for a second time that the solution lay with resting and left to follow his orders that requisitioned him beside the wounded. Tauriel had to feel appreciative that at least her presence in the tent was tolerated, though it could’ve been because Thranduil seemingly closed himself into his inner world, largely unresponsive to the outside one. She kept well back nonetheless, fearing he would send her away if she became intrusive.

Feren inched inside, slowly raising up the flap of the tent designed to provide privacy. He also, did not want to disturb the king, but waved Tauriel over instead, “how is he?” The lieutenant asked quietly. 

“He’s resting,” Tauriel side stepped the question. Not as if she could give an honest answer. She knew not how Thranduil felt, nobody did.

“King Bard is here.” Feren sounded almost apologetic. “Perchance His Majesty would like to decide himself if the spoils offered by the dwarves are payment sufficient enough for the terms of the peace treaty.”

Tauriel had to admit that it was very likely, even in his current condition. “I will ask.” She nodded in agreement and approached the cot, becoming more and more hesitant the closer she got. Thranduil didn’t acknowledge her presence, just kept staring upwards, hands fisted, breaths heavy. “King Bard wishes to speak with you.” She said evenly, quite loud, to attract his attention.

Thranduil turned his eyes at her slowly, as if coming from a different world. Mercifully, understanding and a certain amount of interest displayed in them and he pulled himself into a sitting position. “Pillows.” He ordered, glancing behind him to indicate his wishes and how he intended to receive his ally. The younger elf complied quick, thankful he didn’t intend to stand. She was in no mood to scrape him off the ground for the third time in under a day. Thranduil busied himself with choosing a dignified position that almost looked like he was on a throne, using an elbow to support himself on a cushion as he straightened his back. He threw off his cover and also arranged his mantel before nodding at Tauriel to let the visitor in.

“My Lord Thranduil,” Bard started warmly, trailed by two of his men and Feren on entrance. “I hope you are feeling better as I have news.” He motioned for the large ornate box the men had been carrying with some difficulty to be set down in front of the table with the untouched food the ailing elf had refused.

“There are no real winners in a battle I believe, dragonslayer,” Thranduil eyed the container pointedly. 

“Agreed,” the man granted. He was still a bit taken aback himself to have seen so many ethereal beings like the elves slain in combat just like any other. And for the Elvenking himself to be injured as well. “I wish you a swift recovery. If there’s anything we can do, we would be happy to oblige. You can count on our alliance and a stronghold to stand between your lands and likely outside threats, be that orcs, dwarves or any other once we rebuild our cities. But right now, we need more provisions to do so and survive,” he pitched, “if your Lordship would be so kind, it could be beneficial for both our people.”

Thranduil waved dismissively, “Feren will provide you with whatever you need.” It was no matter of argument, besides, they had brought more than they needed. Quarter of his army was gone, they didn’t even need fed anymore. “You will be supported till we are certain of your strength to provide an efficient defensive wall in the east.” He established.

“Thank you, My Lord,” Bard gave him his due, even though he understood that most of what his ally offered was for his own benefit, but he also believed in the goodness in Thranduil. “And that brings me to the suggested terms of the threeway treaty. Dain agreed to hand over all that you’ve asked for, and the emeralds of Girion as your share in return for you or any elf not stepping into Erebor unsolicited.”

Thranduil regarded the man contemplatively. He did not expect anything else regarding the no encroach imperative but how did Bard achieve such headway so quickly with the unreasonable thing. Curious, he motioned for the crate to be opened. Inside it, his wife’s Lasgalen necklace sparkled, on top of a reasonable number of other white and green gems, not arbitrarily unalike what rightfully belonged to his family. He found it hard to tear his eyes away from them and yet they sickened him. This was it, a pile of diamonds, sapphire, moonstone, pearls and jade, and the five hundred emeralds of Girion, not bigger than what could fit on his bed was all he had risked his people’s safety for. Certain, those were the bare least possible pickings and he should be due more, but a few more barrels of those still didn’t make up for the lost lives. And yet the gems sparkled with teasing intensity, pointing out sorely how mistaken he had been. He gulped, fighting down the raising nausea. “Terms accepted.” No way he was going to endanger another elf for the sake of more jewellery.

Bard nodded and picked up the necklace to hand it over to Thranduil, unaware of the effect the sight was eliciting in the elvenking. The glow and cold glint of his indicters closing in, Thranduil froze, breath halting, mouth opening. These things were leeches, each sliver of light extending its clamps to hook into him, painfully accusing. They were suffocating him, making his head hurt, his stomach contract. No later than Bard placing the choker next to him on the cot, Thranduil couldn’t help throwing up. 

Tauriel jumped forward, steadying her king, pulling the covers in front of him to be sick into instead of his clothing. “Will you excuse us for a little.” She pleaded, glancing at Bard apologetically, her eyes full of undeniable concern. 

Tbc


	6. Intersection

Chapter 6: Interchange

Tauriel hadn’t been aware that she had fallen asleep, but judging by the change in the intensity of the light outside the tent and the increased sounds of commotion, the adversity of the state of affairs and the repeated vigil by Thranduil’s bedside must’ve made her fall asleep. Her eyes snapped back to her charge as soon as she realised her lapse and found Thranduil struggling with something or somebody in his sleep, juddering back and forth the same way as his eyes moved under his closed eyelids. With him moaning and his skin shining with a thin layer of sweat, making him look even paler than before, it only took Tauriel one moment to jump up and shake his arm, “wake up, My Lord.” Her hand was pushed away as if he would’ve swiped the area clear with his sword, making her resort to touching his forehead with a soothing palm, trying to ground him, “please wake up, you’re safe, you’re just having a nightmare.”

Disorientated blues took her sight in and her surroundings in the next moment up close when he bolted upright and then in a beat he pulled back a little, scooting towards the parapet as soon as the fog started to clear, breathing deeply as if he’d just been in battle. “It’s my fault…” He whispered, “I killed them all.”

“Who?” Tauriel reacted confused, her gaze concerned and apprehensive, heart beating heavier and faster empathetically. 

“Bowmen, servants, archers, builders who followed me here, fourhundred and fifty seven of them is the number now I believe, I don’t know precisely, they wouldn’t tell me exactly anymore and that might still rise.” He garbled, closing his eyes in a tortured expression. It was clear he was struggling to calm down, his poised king’s mask out of his reach.

Tauriel sat, taken aback, eyebrows raising, “with all due respect Sire, I would say it was wargs and goblins, it was Bolg. Blame Sauron by association, or Morgoth himself, the very same darkness we’re always fighting.”

“Gandalf had warned me and I didn’t listen,” he shook his head. He felt like an empty abyss was closing in around him and what’s more, he deserved it. 

“So what you’re saying is that you would choose not to take part in the battle if you could?” The redhead felt betrayed by him once more.

“Wouldn’t you Tauriel? Wouldn’t you save fourhundred and fiftyseven elves if you could?”

“If you didn’t interfere, Bolg would’ve won.” She avoided to answer straight. “If you didn’t come, all the people of Laketown and all the dwarves would be dead. Azog would have a stronghold close by,” she argued, “we would live in the shadows of Gundabad.”

Thranduil sighed and leaned back, supporting himself on the pillows, “I already live in the shadow of Gundabad.”

“If you can’t save your elves, if you can’t save your wife from Gundabad, nobody should be saved then?” The archer spat, their ongoing argument rekindled.

Thraduil’s pupils visibly dilated at that, “where did you hear about that.” He uttered icily measured.

“Legolas. He doesn’t know much, but he should,” the nurse turned accuser held.

The king regarded her perplexed. He knew she was right about that, but it was unbelievable how bold the redhead could be at times. So instead of admitting she had a point, he argued the first issue, “strictly tactically speaking, it is best Erebor stays under dwarven rule. Would I have shed blood for it if I knew the extent of the cost? No.” Swiping her out the way with his intruding presence, he stood lithely, like there was nothing wrong with him. “You continue to test my patience Tauriel. Send Galion in with a jug of wine and a wash up bowl and report to Feren. We leave today and you will arrive in front of the Mirkwood council in shackles.” He dismissed her. It was his fault his people died, how dare she question it. 

Tbc


	7. Level Below

Chapter 7: Level

Tauriel couldn’t say that she cared very much about what happened to her. She didn’t give it much thought, a few other matters and concerns weighing more heavily on her mind, one of them being how troubled and easily shaken Thranduil had been. The Silvan could not shake the recent memories of the unprecedented occurrence, in such sharp contrast to how the king had been since she came to the court. It was as if the world would’ve tilted off its axis. The phenomenon made her uneasy as well, jolted out the anchoring melancholy Kili’s death would’ve otherwise confined her to. With restrained interest, she kept out an eye and ear for what she could in regards to the king.

What she knew was that Thranduil had taken a stroll throughout the camp in the morning of their departure from under the mountain of Erebor, overseeing preparations to leave, gauging the level of desolation and the state of the morale himself, making an appearance in front of the troops to assure them of his wellbeing. Tauriel had seen him with her own eyes, clad in his riding gear, trailed by his lieutenants and acting as if everything was normal. Yet the way he made the journey back to Mirkwood was climbing into a covered waggon and disappearing in there for the rest of the trek.

Tauriel kept an eye on it on a regular basis, and it was apparent she wasn’t the only one aware of a healer being with the king at all times, worried pairs of eyes followed the waggon the whole way. What happened after their arrival back home she did not know. She was hoping to at least see Thranduil at the council gathering, but he was either too unwell to attend, or he really meant giving the decision over her fate over to the elders of their community. Thrown into the dungeons without a second look, the Silvan had no choice but accept her lot with the indifference her losses predisposed her to, if not for a nagging shred of worry and a bad feeling she had in regards to her king and she had no one to ask: was he still having nightmares? Blamed himself for his subjects’ deaths? Tortured himself, let himself be swept under by the guilt and sorrow enough to make himself sick? But not as if she could go up to her prison guards and inquire about the Elvenking’s health, not with her main sentence being for threatening him. Regular, low rank sentinels would know nothing at any case.

Without a window to the outside world in sight, it was hard to tell how much time had passed since the beginning of her incarceration. It would’ve maybe been possible to go by mealtimes, but Tauriel was too weary to count them and some days, rations weren’t as regular as others. So this is how it was going to be, with her wasting her youth away sub terrain. The redhead would’ve been lying if she would’ve said that despite apathy wearing her down, she didn’t miss the colours of the forest she originated from, the sun on her face, the thrill of the hunt. Here, there was nothing, just her torturesome thoughts, a feeling of loss that could not be soothed till… 

Tauriel had expected no visitors. She had never grown close with any of her peers. With her having been found in the depth of the forest as a child, barely able to utter her name, but capable of defending herself from spiders and orcs alike, the Silvan never felt like she belonged with the elves inside the fortress. It was Legolas only she chose to train with when possible, he wouldn’t have it any other way at any case, patrol the lands of Mirkwood, eating, sleeping and spending time together day by day. And the more she was with him, the less everybody else dared to approach her. It was as if she was royal herself, without actually being one and it alienated her further from the other guards. No, there was nobody who would come to visit her, and that’s before they knew the gravity of her crime.

It was this way that footsteps and keys jingling didn’t make her look up. Whoever came down, it wasn’t for her. Only when the gate of her cell creaked open did she take an interest in the arrival. Galion, barely recognisable behind the pile of books he was carrying, as many as he could manage, just and no more, as it became apparent by the manner he let go of the heap, landing the volumes at Tauriel’s feet, forcing her to jump out the way. “His Majesty sends his regards,” he puffed, cheeks red from the exertion for once rather than the wine. And with that he pulled the gate closed behind him once more. 

Tauriel regarded the collection of books at her feet. Some of them belonged to Legolas, that much she could see, atlases and historical accounts and descriptions of craftsmanship, but then there were others that gotten flipped open while being dropped, to pages with drawings and paintings and verse. Not ones she had ever seen. Poetry. Tauriel’s jaw opened, uncomprehending the meaning of the occurrence. “Wait! Wait!” She called out to the servant. “Legolas is back?”

“His Majesty the King,” Galion specified. 

“Why?” Tauriel held onto the bars, keen on finding out more.

The question made Galion pause, and he half turned his body back, “that is a mystery, along with the expanse of other unusual incidences he had resorted to of late.” It wasn’t an outright disparagement, but Thranduil’s behaviour puzzled him enough to comment on it, the brazen servant, boldness fuelled by his status as occasional drinking buddy of the king as he was.

“Is he well though, otherwise?” The redhead could finally ask the question she had been waiting to address.

“He isn’t.” Galion stated and then took his leave as if nothing disturbing would’ve been said. Shouting after him turned to no avail. 

Tbc


	8. Torpor

Chapter 8: Torpor

Alfirindaer wasn’t entirely unused to being woken at night to attend to a patient, although elvish healing capabilities and resistance to illness made the occurrence few and far in between. And while he knew that nothing new had befallen the king since their arrival from Erebor, the healer dressed quick and somewhat alarmed by the call, not wanting to make the king wait. “I need you to ease the cramps. My stomach hurts terribly.” Thranduil declared evenly on his arrival and impassive as if he would’ve been talking about the weather. He didn’t move from his bed however, hand firmly across his middle.

The healer let out a relieved sigh. This was the first time the king finally admitted something being wrong with his belly, maybe they could make some sort of progress now, though it must’ve been hurting him real bad to ask for help in this manner. “I know Your Majesty. If you could allow me to examine you properly for once I am sure I could help.” 

“A potion will suffice,” he grumbled.

“You cannot possibly ask your faithful servant to potentially cause more harm than good. I need to know what I’m dealing with, ensure my assumptions are not mistaken.” Alfirindaer argued. Thranduil didn’t seem pleased with it, but he allowed the other elf to advance with a curt nod. “If you could raise your nightshirt and tolerate my palpation, My Lord.”

The king complied slow, resigned. At this point he didn’t see any other alternative, he had come to the end of his tether getting by with that amount of pain for the night. He grit his teeth behind his lips and braced himself for being poked. Alfirindaer was good at his profession he had to admit, he knew exactly where to investigate, where to touch and probe, and press his fingers in from the side so he didn’t aggravate the most tender point. Still, Thranduil couldn’t hold back a grunt, but it was better than the whimper he really felt like. “Have you consumed anything today besides cheese and wine?” The healer was not surprised by the king’s resulting uncomfortable eyeflutter and looking away that gave the answer away.

“It makes me nauseous,” the Elvenking said defensively. How many times did he have to tell them to leave him alone and not offer him food!

“My Lord,” Alfirindaer started seriously, “I believe you are making yourself very sick with this attitude,” he accused.

“I didn’t ask you here to criticise me,” Thranduil rebuked, “only herbs against nightmares and pain.”

The other elf finished up with his examination, but not before pressing two fingers deep just above Thranduil’s navel as if testing the area, though his expectant facial expression told otherwise. It was no mistake he chose that point to press. The king closed his eyes, needing a few shallow breaths to recover before he managed to speak, “what do you think you’re doing.” He growled dangerously. 

“I am proving that you are well beyond being able to control your body and you need targeted help.”

“Help me then,” Thranduil rolled his eyes, appearing but a petulant child. 

“May I?” Alfirindaer indicated a chair nearby that Thranduil’s dismissive head movement allowed him to pull close and sit on. “I will prescribe symptomatic relief after we talk about the root cause and what we can do about it.” He established. The king has ignored him long enough. “I may be too young to have been at your side at Angmar, but there are wide-ranging notes that have been passed on by my predecessor on the subject on our ruler’s welfare in case it’s ever needed, from descriptions of every injury to manifestations of depressive predilections. I know about your stomach.” The visitor stated, clearly hoping the statement was having an effect on the patient. “It was what ailed you, sometimes for years in times of great distress, sadness and grief. It was what Vanimelde had recorded being worried about when not sure whether you would follow the queen into death.”

“I have no intentions of fading,” Thranduil allowed that much insight given the circumstances. 

“What is it then, My Lord? I will not trivialise the weight of our losses at Erebor, but the reactions I’ve seen in you are equalling, if not surpassing those of losing spouses and wishing to die in grief.”

“I do not.” Thranduil established firmly once more. “Are you quite done.” He angrily suggested the conversation should be over. “You’re a healer. Do no harm by torturing me here with wait.”

Alfirindaer shook his head, opening his satchel for the potions required, giving up his grilling for the time being, “if you do not want to talk to your best healer about what troubles you, is there anyone else you would talk to?”

Thranduil’s instinctual reaction was to refuse. The Elvenking should be emotionally self-reliant at all times. But then there was that one person who had already caught him at his weakest, in the throes of a nightmare he could not hide behind fortified stone walls like at the Halls, an elleth who had a history of not shying away from accusing him and yet she said this time it wasn’t his fault. He was missing that feisty redhead. “Tauriel.” He allowed, a sliver of the anticipation seeing her lifting his spirits somewhat.

Tbc


	9. Fortified

Chapter 9: Fortified

Tauriel was rather surprised to say the least when Feren appeared at her cell not just with keys to her partition, but with news of her being pardoned and released on decree of the king vetoing the council’s ruling and not only that, but a new position for her in the folds of the royal personal guard, where she was to start work with immediate effect. She was even more astounded when Alfirindaer called for her in the middle of the night and sat her down for a talk and an extensive update on what was going on with the king.

Thranduil wasn’t well, that much she knew. He had apparently infrequently attempted to hold court till on one occasion he swooned again and since then every administrative, organizational or defence ruling had been passed on to the council. Thankfully this was a relatively peaceful time in the wake of news of the White Council making Sauron flee and sure power shifts in Middle Earth, so the main concern of the people of Mirkwood was currently their king’s declining health, something that herself, Tauriel of the Forest was somehow expected to fix, or at least alleviate till Galadriel arrived like she had promised with the return of their messenger they’ve sent for help. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing-“ was Tauriel’s reaction, a confused tune she repeated several times on her way to Thranduil’s chambers she was sent to with medicine. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing,” she started, bowing to her king, “apart from helping you drink these down,” she held her vials up apologetically. 

“Tauriel?” Thranduil stared, taken aback. When his stomach pains reached a new height and he had sent for a healer, it wasn’t quite the redhead he had been expecting. 

The elleth winced, taking in the sight. He laid limp, bar for the tight hands protecting his stomach, face drawn into lines of pain. She had been told to expect this, or him being sick, perhaps shaking, restless in sleep and yet it didn’t make it any easier to experience. He was the Elvenking, he should’ve been a solid rock, not a crumbling ruin. Driven by a sudden, unstoppable urge to try to do something for him, she followed her instructions and wordlessly and summarily elevated his cushions and supported him leaning forward to sip up his medicine. 

“Tauriel,” he repeated with a sigh once he was helped to lie back down. 

“Yes, My Lord,” she prompted while continuing with implementing the advice she was given to ease the physical symptoms. She worked quickly, slipping the dried compress from under his gown and saturated it with the brew she had in a small bottle in her pocket. “Thank you for the books,” she offered while searching his face intently. Was the poultice placed back correctly and helping? “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to read them all.”

Thranduil seemed satisfied with her words however, a small, hardly noticeable, pensive smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Any poems?”

“You mean the handwritten ones at the side of drawings? I couldn’t help noticing it being your handwriting. Years long and a myriad as the leaves on my trees,  
Wasting away like once flowering aeglos in the wind.  
All this time I’m drowning in the draught   
Though I’ve drank wine enough to fill my Halls.  
From the West she calls from across the sea,  
I hear her voice, blessed and sweet-fragrant, endlessly.”

The king appeared afflicted by her recital. “That…that wasn’t intended to be there…” He trailed off.

“Is there any way I can help?” Tauriel felt her heart pouring out for him even more when he seemed dazed by a forgotten memory. How could she be so careless to remind him? It was only that she wanted to let him know that she cared, that she paid attention. She stood upright, ready for orders. “Alfirindaer wanted us to have a talk.”

“I’m too tired for a talk, Tauriel. Perhaps tomorrow.” He closed his eyes tight, waiting for the medicine to kick in. The moment it did, he would have to use its benefit to fall asleep or else he never would. 

Tauriel nodded empathetically. She had been also told that Thranduil had good days no more and therefore the likelihood of him engaging the next day was just as questionable. Despite knowing how sick he had been, seeing it was another thing. It shocked her how frail and weak he looked. Stunned by the encounter, she plopped down at the foot of the bed. She will stay with him, there was nothing else she could do at any case. 

Tbc


	10. Colourful

Chapter 10: Colourful

Suddenly surrounded by silken sheets and velvety cushions, a stark contrast to the straw on hard rock she had been sleeping on of late, Tauriel wondered how she had landed in this situation. As Legolas’ frequent companion, and captain of the guard, she was not a stranger to a certain familiarity with Thranduil and the intimate and intricate matters of the court, but sitting in the king’s private chambers on his very bed was somewhat of a leap in type of surrounds. And this time, it had nothing to do with the prince, or her own professional merits, it appeared to be because somehow, after all that’s happened, Thranduil expressed forgiveness, was fond of her and according to the chief healer, at some level needed her and her mostly. 

Tauriel had to wonder if it had something to do with the king missing his son, with her being the next best thing, if he in some way thought of her as a foster child since it was him who had found her in the forest and taken her in, but when it came round to it, she felt like that was only part of why he wanted her around as opposed to locked away in his dungeons. They had a connection, beyond their links to Legolas, based on conversations of old, ideas discussed, even if opposed, a regard that separated the other party from those they merely coexisted with, and she was sure of that being mutual. 

Sitting there, watching Thranduil in his restless sleep, fisting the covers, breaths uneven and pained, sometimes only calming when she squeezed his hand or placed a palm on his forehead, Tauriel admonished herself for being so harsh, judgemental and ignorant with him. Her time in the dungeons was beneficial in multiple ways-there was time and peace being left along to mourn and she had a chance to think, re-evaluate experiences. That Thranduil didn’t love or knew how to, was a ridiculous assumption. He’d clearly loved his wife and every single one of his subjects. She still stood for the necessity of standing by the dwarves, but it saddened her that Thranduil blamed himself for his elves’ deaths. She was faced head on with the weight of such responsibility in the form of his ill health and nightmares as proof. It was at this point that she inwardly promised him and herself that no matter of how he will regard other races and threats to their existence in the future, she will always care about or for him, if he allowed it, for his own sake and not having anything to do with duty or Legolas. 

Her attempts to soothe him, facilitating a healing sleep were working, barely. Soon however, his movements and demeanour started to resemble that of how she had seen him at her vigil of him at Erebor, wasting his precious slight energy fighting imaginary battles in his sleep. Tauriel decided to wake him, calling out to him, squeezing his shoulder, patting his face gently, then on a sudden impulse, “it’s not your fault.” She established, remembering his ramblings. “My Lord, the people of Mirkwood forgive you, it was not your fault.”

Thranduil’s eyes snapped open, but at first, he didn’t seem to snap out of his nightmare yet. “No.” He moaned, “I’m so sorry. No…” He was breathing heavily, though too drained for other physical manifestations of his internal struggles.

“Hir vuin,” she called in Sindarin, hoping his own language will make him listen more, “amin hi. Echuio! Im Tauriel.”

He reached out for her as he rose to an elbow, as if she had been an anchor, getting his bearings, calming his breaths, his shaking fingers digging into her arm as he clung on. “It’s alright, I’ve got you,” Tauriel leaned close to provide the support necessary to steady him, “do you need to be sick?” She worried, judging by his grunting moans and excessive swallowing. 

“Maybe,” he agreed, taking deep breaths to counteract it and resting his forehead against Tauriel’s chest. 

“Will get you to sit up?” Tauriel suggested, eager to do something useful.

“No. I’ll need to lie down,” he nodded suggestively, a great deal more in control than before. Still, he used her to cling onto as he got himself down into a comfortable position. The ordeal of the nightmare and struggling to calm down had seemed to have taken it out of him and as soon as his head sank into the pillow, he became the impersonation of tranquillity, quiet and motionless. Tauriel reached for his hand, suddenly having to make sure he wasn’t dead.

“I would like you to change the compress,” Thranduil requested, serene.

“Of course, My Lord,” she busied herself swiftly. Thankfully, her leather overcoat had enough pockets for the potion she was meant to put on the material and she placed the compress back on his unblemished, neat little stomach in no time. His hand moved to hold it there, brushing against hers as she retracted.

He sighed, closing his eyes, calming even more if that was possible. Tauriel assumed he was going back to sleep, but in a few seconds, when his fingers loosened, he had to readjust his hold on the poultice. “Do you want me to keep that in place?” The younger elf offered.

Thranduil raised his hand, letting hers under in its place and Tauriel found she had to readjust how she was sitting to be able to do what she’d set out to without putting too much pressure on, touching him elsewhere or making him uncomfortable in any other way, which made her end up hovering above him. It wasn’t a station she could sustain for a very long time, certainly not as long as he had slept. Without moving her palm, she tried to get herself reasonably comfortable as well, gyrating her whole body back and forth, this way and that. It wasn’t working. 

The king opened a prying eye, frowning, “oh in the name of Valar, would you just lie down next to me.”

“Lie down next to you, Your Majesty?” Tauriel parroted, perplexed.

Thranduil opened both his eyes just to roll them, “I said I was too tired to talk. Lie down.” He ordered, conversation finished as far as he was concerned. 

Tauriel blanched a little. It wasn’t her place to do such a thing, but she had to comply nonetheless, finding that indeed, it was possible to hold the compress comfortably for both of them, though the no touch rule she set up for herself went straight out the window. They were touching, their whole bodies long, from leg to shoulder. 

“You don’t need to hover your head either,” he grunted, displeased.

The redhead wasn’t entirely sure what he meant for her to do, so she only slowly, gradually let her head rest on his shoulder. It must’ve been the right thing, as he didn’t say anything, not for a long time. Tauriel assumed he was asleep till he suddenly spoke, out of the blue, “you do not have the authority to forgive me in the name of Mirkwood elves, Tauriel.” He stated sleepily, proving he had been listening all along. And then judging by the loosening of the lines on his forehead, he truly fell asleep as if he had to state that before he could.

Tbc

Glossary:  
Amin hi - I am here  
Echuio – wake up


	11. Pie Chart

Chapter 11: Pie Chart

Tauriel crammed the remaining mouthfuls of the most delicious acorn squash into her mouth, eying the honey encased cheese delicacies on the next plate. Royal diet was the best. “Sure you don’t want some more?” She panicked, remembering that she had almost overlooked the fact that it was Thranduil’s favourite dishes that were brought in to try to cajole him into eating and not for her to gobble up in one go.

Sitting up in his bed, Thranduil regarded her entirely amused. A gourmet could possibly be made from the daughter of the forest after all. Just the enchantment in her eyes made him want to join in, experience tasting with her as it would’ve been his first time the same as her. “Perchance a miniature berry pie,” he ventured. It was in fact a dangerous business. He had already eaten more that day than the previous few weeks altogether and he had no idea how it happened, or why he wasn’t feeling nauseated, he just didn’t. 

“Yes, great idea,” Tauriel placed the item on his plate. The pastry of this particular berry pie was made from largely the same ingredients as lembas, so one mouthful contained nigh the nutritional value of a full meal, part of how the kitchens played their part in helping the king take sufficient nourishment. 

Thranduil raised his knife and cut the half a finger small item through in the middle. He was not ignorant enough not to be aware of the trick with the bitesize meal’s potency, but it was more so he could fully enjoy the taste of the berry filling hitting his tastebuds right away when he put the pie into his mouth. It was Tauriel’s turn to stare, and enjoy the view. Similarly to the dungeons, she found it hard to tell the time’s passing without a daily routine in his chambers and it seemed like an awful long time ago when he’d ordered her to lie next to him for the first time or the second time, a third time, many times till it felt so natural they didn’t even mention or question it. They’ve been to hell and back several times since, with her frequently thinking they’ll never get out of it. 

It was an endless circle of him exhausting himself with attempting the simplest of tasks taking care of himself, cleaning him up, administering medicine, soothing his stomach, letting him sleep just so he woke in terror, calming him, negating the validity of his guilt for the hundredth time. It was only a few days back that Tauriel sensed something was different. At first she thought he was just too tired to argue with her anymore, but later she had to realise that wasn’t it as he in fact seemed more alert and contemplative. He was awake longer, demanding the pillows higher, keeping all the medicine and water down, taking an interest in the running of the kingdom. It excited Tauriel and brought them to the present moment-with her propping her chin up just so she could gaze at him with delight. “How are you feeling?” She fretted nonetheless, wanting to hear his confirmation of the favourable turn. 

“I’m full,” Thranduil admitted. His joy for tastes reawakened and he longed for several dishes, but his stomach was out of practice for a feast, “maybe a little wine to wash it down?”

Tauriel rolled her eyes only half discreetly, though she poured him an inch of his favourite Dorwinion. “I didn’t mean wine. You probably shouldn’t push your luck, My Lord.”

He smiled at that, regarding her fondly, “will there be a day when we agree on something? Or at least one when it doesn’t clearly show on your face I have earned your disapproval?”

“I apologise for my boldness Your Majesty. I can assure you I rejoice in your progress and only have your best interest in mind,” her tone changed to cold and she moved to retreat from his proximity. Now that he was a little better, she was assuming that his arrogance will leak back into his ways, from the manner he held himself with to his refusal to reason. Perhaps she shouldn’t have expected thanks or anything else, but it still stung. 

She was all mistaken however, because the king noticed her face falling. He set down the goblet and slid it on the bedside table towards her. “Drink up, eryn mallos, why don’t you savour it for me.”

Tauriel’s head snapped up at that and she had to remind herself that staring into the king’s eyes was rather discourteous. The redhead didn’t know where to put his mellowness and whether she should judge it being a good or bad thing. A personality shift would be welcome, but did it only mean he was far from recovered yet? She didn’t have time to consider however as Galion stepped in, “the Lady Galadriel has arrived.”

Tbc 

Glossary:  
eryn mallos – flower of the forest


	12. Convention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I don’t understand how Galadriel plays for the anti-Sauron team. I’ve always found her creepy and repulsively perturbing. Too unnatural to be beautiful. Anyway, she will remain largely canon here too.

Chapter 12: Convention 

 

Tauriel produced her lowermost bow in front of the ancient royal in charge of Lothlorien, apprehensive and nervous. Being apart from Thranduil while Galadriel visited with the king made her feel restless and without scope. They had been together essentially 24/7 and it seemed that it wasn’t just him relying on her for comfort and support, but her on him as well for purpose and focus, something she acutely needed under the circumstances. Elves didn’t love half measures.

“It is you, my dear,” Galadriel watched her with palpable interest. 

Tauriel looked up with confusion. Sure she knew that the Lady of Lorien was the mightiest and fairest of all the elves that remained on Middle-Earth, aided by her telepathic powers, foresight and wisdom, yet it felt both strangely disturbing and bizarrely comforting when their eyes met and she remained locked in place for some time despite her own will all the while no spoken words were passed between them, but she did not feel her free will violated, only drawn to a white light that resided within the Lady of the Golden Woods. 

Tauriel’s mind felt cleared than ever, void of the destructive emotions of grief, fear and loss for the time of while their gazed held sealed together. It wasn’t as if she would’ve never fallen for Kili, but in that moment, only the wisdom of that experience remained, greatly overshadowed by bonds that she was part of most of her life as opposed to the quick flame that burned through her for the dwarf, those that linked her with Legolas and Thranduil. The option that led not just to her own happiness, but also to those she cared about and consequently, a great number of elves around them and conceivably even of people’s from faraway lands, the choice was so clear that she almost laughed out loud in startlement. “I knew that already.” She stated defiantly nevertheless, once Galadriel’s hold on her mind faded and she was able.

The older elf smiled appreciatively, “you are so young and yet the best thing that could ever happen to Thranduil. You complement each other to perfection.”

“Is he going to get better fully?” The redhead inquired, letting the woman’s statement lie. Tauriel was a lowly elf, how could she complement the king? The Lady of Galadhrim had been asked over to restore the Elvenking’s health, especially as his illness was of spiritual origins, she was the best person to deal with it. Though it may be that she maybe arrived after the time Thranduil himself started on the road of recovery. 

“My interference is largely unnecessary,” she answered her unvoiced thoughts ahead of the articulated question. “I have cleared his mind the way I did with yours. His will is bending the way it naturally would’ve, eventually, I’m only speeding the process up. Go to him, child, do what you have been doing all along, that is all he needs. You and him, spending time together as he recovers with your assistance, is what you both need. I can’t take that away from you, or that, you shall be.”

Tauriel looked at the ruler of Lothlorien as if she had two heads, not completely sure what she was talking about. She had the chance and ability to heal the king. Instead, she lets him suffer? However, she took comfort and reassurance in her words about Thranduil recovering nonetheless, and most of all, was glad she was now allowed to go back to him and tend to her duties. 

tbc


	13. Propaganda

Chapter 13: Propaganda

Tauriel found Thranduil looking out to the vast expanse of his forests, standing erect half outside on his balcony. It filled her with great joy that despite what the Lady of Galadriel implied, she must’ve facilitated the improvement of his health to some extent as previously he would’ve not been able to make it over there unaided and remain motionless for the shaking of his frame due to weakness. “I am not intruding, My Lord?” Suddenly the elleth felt panicked. Magnificent if he was better, but would that mean he didn’t need her anymore?

He turned slowly and waved her over, “look, Tauriel, the trees. Colourful, blooming, growing above the darkness, berries and flowers so abundant beside the path,” he marvelled. 

“Yes, My Lord,” Tauriel agreed, standing beside him. She completely understood the sentiment. Although she has been told of better times by older elves, she herself had never seen the forest so alive and beautiful. “It already started flourishing on our way back from Erebor, then intensified with Sauron’s withdrawal from Dol Goldur. It has become especially noticeable over the last few days at the rate of your recovery and practically overgrown on the route Galadriel has taken.”

“I have forgotten how it looks,” he mused, “how it feels to lie down under the trees to smell the fragrance of different flowers in the air, without the threat of being attacked. Make love hidden by the undergrowth.”

Tauriel’s eyes grew and became weary. She was scandalised to say the least, not because of the intimacy involved, just cause such an act would be very dangerous and careless, at least under the circumstances she was accustomed to. Thranduil laughed at her facial expression, “I shall endeavour to introduce you to the joys of picking flowers and carrying their pollen to untouched clearings. A few months and you can swim in the newly grown petals,” he enthused. “Truly, Tauriel, we shall enjoy the forest while it lasts,” he established, “as soon as I’m well enough to ride.”

“You should rest then, My Lord,” she ventured to suggest something once more. Her advice came run-of-the-mill while he had been bedridden and he took it often, but maybe now that he was better that would change. 

Thranduil nodded however, and placed an arm around her shoulders while stepping towards the bed, wishing for her support on the way. “Shall I pour any of the medicine?” Tauriel wondered. “The day has been eventful.”

The king shook his head, though he leaned on her heavier than before and almost completely while she lowered him into the bed. “I am well enough,” he claimed.

“Not even the one against nightmares?”

“We both know it isn’t that what stops my nightmares,” he recognized, “I have a good feeling about this Tauriel, no bad dreams tonight. On the other hand, I would like you to get the compress,” he admitted. 

Tauriel nodded, nimble and practiced fingers preparing what he had asked for. Of course, it would’ve been a bit of an overexpectation to assume he would be fine and dandy all of a sudden, she encouraged herself. A bit of a stomach ache wasn’t much. “Comfortable?” She asked, once she had settled into her place, one hand on his abdomen and her head leaning onto his shoulder. 

“All well,” he assured, settling into his pillows also. He took a few breaths that slowed one by one as he calmed, then he turned his head towards her and put a finger under her chin to lift her gaze up to his. The candour and fondness in his eyes startled her and she remained spellbound, not able to as much as draw a breath. “Thank you.” Thranduil said clearly and firmly. He didn’t say what for, it was quite obvious he was meaning for everything. Then he slowly lifted his head and kissed her lightly, gentle and experimental, gauging her reaction every moment. It only took one small, accepting and eager lean forward from Tauriel and he turned, not minding the compress getting out of place, to put an arm behind her, gather her in his arms and devour her mouth.

Tbc


	14. Spoonfull

Chapter 14: Spoonful

Tauriel eyed the long dried out compress and the container with the herbs infusion she was meant to soak it in, lying untouched on the table for many nights in a row. “Thranduil,” she ventured, arms around his Adonis body. They were lying in a similar position as they have been during the times she needed to tend to his cramping belly, only without clothes and without the need to lessen his pain, “we shouldn’t be doing this indefinitely. Your subjects are worried you are still ill given that I am still with you every night.”

“They are aware I hold court and oversee the recruiting and training of new troops,” he offered conversationally, relaxed. It was a big change in itself that he could talk about the losses so factually, without clamping up. “They can’t be that worried.”

“Perhaps. But you can’t hide from Alfirindaer. He doesn’t say a word, but he knows there’s nothing wrong with you anymore.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes, “so which one are you more nervous about, people’s concerns for my welfare or Alfirindaer finding out you bed me.”

“It is you who beds me and not the other way round,” Tauriel argued.

“You want to say you don’t approve of my methods?” He tightened his arms around her and buried his head in her neck to cover it with kisses teasingly. 

“No, not at all, it’s just that we will have to reach some sort of form of normalcy,” she tried to keep at the subject as his lips stirred sure desire in her, “sooner or later. What is the plan? Is there one?”

“A plan.” Thranduil sobered, looking annoyed. “There is a plan. I was going to wait with it for a bit though till emotions among the people settle. Many elves have lost their other halves if you remember, I didn’t want to remind them of their losses.” The king grunted. He pulled back, mood wasted and extricated himself from under her. “This is not the first time you aggravate me with this matter, you won’t stop and I’m getting tired of it.”

Tauriel tugged at the covers, suddenly cold without his body attached to hers. She was also a little peeved at why he had gotten cold so abruptly and what their relationship had to do with people losing their spouses. Deep in thought and trying to figure him out, she watched as he got up, long hair covering up the scars on his back she had become accustomed to, lean muscles playing a rhythm as he walked to the small chest on top of the dresser, his cross features giving him his customary ethereal look. “I assure you, I know what romance is, but you drive me to do it differently. Of course, you always do, that is how you are,” he sighed, walking back. “The plan is to wed you,” he opened his palm to show her the item he took out the chest, a thin, elegant, silver ring resembling entangled leaves and branches.

The ring was beautiful, yet Tauriel still frowned at it, “you can’t wed me. Even if you wanted to, you are bonded with another.” It was the first predicament that occurred to her, the first argument she could raise in a sea of wrongs. 

Thranduil sat with her, pensive. It looked like it might take him a while till he gathered the words and spoke. “I am no longer bonded with Alatariel.”

Tauriel frowned, shaking her head, “I don’t understand. How can you not be bonded with her.” It was the first time she’d heard his wife’s name, him being able to utter it too.

The king glanced towards the empty wine carafe, really needing a drink right now. He couldn’t call for Galion at the moment though, he had more important matters to attend to. “She let me go,” he lowered his head as if ashamed and again, took a long time to continue, “a long time ago. It was when we were trying to clean up the Old Forest Road.”

The redhead leaned forward, putting a comforting arm round his shoulders. What she told her made him sad, that was clear. “You were injured in a clash with the Nazgul,” Tauriel remembered. As a young warrior, she had just joined the guard and was more of a witness of the events, rather than an active participant, “the road was deemed unusable and it was subsequently decided we would entrench ourselves beyond Emyn Fuin and not venture out unless absolutely necessary.” She recalled, prompting him for further insight.

He nodded. “I might have kept pretending to look strong for the sake of our people, but both the revelation and the injury had been hard to manage. I had definite thoughts of fading and then all of a sudden, I couldn’t feel her anymore. She had made me promise to stay for Legolas before she died, and although he was in principle full-grown by this time, it could’ve been her way to tell me my place was still with my son and my people. I don’t know,” he stared ahead, looking devastated. “Nobody knows Tauriel…”

“I am so sorry,” his lover tightened her hold on him. It all made sense now, his coldness that crept into every moment of his life around that time, his indifference and detachment. Alatariel left him once when she died, forced him to stay behind and then left him again. Certainly, he was the king, and had a duty to attend to, still..

“Do you think you could bond with me?” Thranduil turned to look at her, the uncertainty in his voice making him sound like a mere youth in love.

Tauriel’s gaze was just as innocent, incredulous despite him repeating himself. In his eyes, a sea of pain, the adversity of millennia, looking for hope, release, salvation. If he really meant it, there was no way she was going to say no. “I don’t want to rush you. I can wait till you’re sure of who your heart beats for.” He assured, kissing her forehead gently. “If the people gossip, let them talk.”

The redhead shook her head. There was no denying where this was heading, they were always meant to be. “I would never want to cause you more pain by making you wait. Not when I am sure I love you,” she ventured, trying out the word with all the implications of its meaning resonating in his voice. Given the hardship of the last few weeks, it wasn’t the first time Tauriel had seen Thranduil’s eyes water, but these were the first happy tears.

The End.


End file.
